


On Your Left

by ravenshadow



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 21:44:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1580600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenshadow/pseuds/ravenshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's just enough to know that someone's there to listen, even if nothing is said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Left

Getting home after midnight was a rarity these days. Normally he enjoyed spending the evenings in, but business out of state had kept him away and delays on his flight ate away the afternoon. Keys jingled softly in his hand. He didn't like coming home at night. Even with the streetlamps lighting the pavement along the stretch of sidewalk before his building. It's quiet, but he's tense and every shadow is scrutinized. Even now, it's hard to shake the unease. 

He relaxes slightly as he walks into his building. The security isn't assured. He knows this, but there's a comfort in having walls around him. A comfort in not having to concentrate 360-degrees for threats, which probably don't exist, he reminds himself. It doesn't matter; there is comfort, and he mounts the steps at a soft jog up to his apartment. The light is dimmer here, but not so much that he can't see every corner of the hallway. He did choose his apartment for a reason. Unlocking his door, he steps into the refuge of his apartment.

"On your left."

The soft words in the dark jolt through him and then he relaxes again immediately, reaching over to turn on the lamp near the door. Steve's sitting in the armchair of his living room, blond hair a mess, blue eyes haunted. It's one of those nights. He turns quietly, closing and locking the door. He throws the deadbolts and slides the chains home. His movements are slow and precise, setting the keys on the table next to the lamp, leaving his luggage next to the door. 

He walks over to sit in the chair across from the other man, his friend. Seeing him still amazes him at times. Growing up, Captain America had been a heroic legend, a role model, someone he wanted to be when he grew up. Despite the teasing in school, he'd held onto that dream and entered the Army. Captain America had been a standard to live up to and one he strived daily to meet and exceed. He was bigger than life, a hero, an icon, an ideal.

Sitting across from him now, he saw the man behind the legend. He saw the eyes haunted by loss and worry. He saw more than just the hero, and somehow the man moved him to even further respect and devotion.

Neither of them spoke at first. He had given his friend a key for nights like this. Sometimes he called first, more often, he simply showed up at his door. Sometimes they talked about things they'd gone through. Their wars were different, but the experience was similar enough that it was easy to understand. War is like that. Sometimes Steve only needed him to listen, and he did; his family, his friends, his love, and his loss. Sometimes he repeated a story, sometimes night after night, but he never pointed that out. Sometimes all he needed to give was his time and a patient ear. Sometimes they said nothing at all, just sitting in the dim livingroom together. Those times, all he needed to give was his presence. 

Tonight was a quiet night. Steve met his eyes, and he could see the pain in them, and he waited, leaning slightly forward in his chair, forearms resting on his knees, ready to listen if the man needed to talk. Silence stretched though. The clock in the kitchen ticking softly. He didn't count. There was no deadline, just the two of them, and the time they needed to think. Eventually, the blond shook himself -- actually shook himself, their eyes meeting again and he smiled, relaxing a little.

"Hey. Welcome home."

"Thanks. Want a drink?"

"Yeah."

He stood up and headed to start a kettle to boiling to make them some tea. In the living room, he heard Steve stand, stretching, and he smiled when Marvin Gaye's _Sunny_ started playing softly as his friend joined him in the kitchen.


End file.
